per il momento
by pfirsichkind
Summary: He can make out Antonio's eyes, but not what is written within them. He just feels the Spaniard's warm breath. He is being pressed down on the bed, then Antonio disappears to return with a wet cloth and a gauze bandage.


**per il momento**

The cigarette is insipid, damp, but it is enough for the moment. The dark hair sticks to his forehead, wet from the rain. Cold sweat remains on his skin and his hands, which are holding the cigarette, are trembling, too. Little, barely visible, nevertheless uncontrolled and he tries to calm his shallow breath.

Touching his cross, he smears dark blood on the gleaming metal. It glistens ironically in the moonlight. Hurriedly he wipes the blood off on his black jacket, takes a last deep puff and drops the cigarette into the first puddle. He picks up the gun, which is lying on the ground. Three bullets have remained and he shoots one onto the ground, out of old habit. The silencer keeps the town around him from suggesting anything. In a few minutes his men will arrive to pull the limp body out of Rome's dark alley.

Romano walks home slowly.

The shallow rain makes him shiver, at least he keeps telling that himself. It is the drops, the chilly wind. He tastes the metallic taste of blood and fishes another cigarette out of his pocket. Then he dials the number of Don Pedro. He almost starts laughing, when the smoky stereotyped voice answers, but he knows better, it is best not to tangle with the Don and he reports shortly, where exactly the body lies. Then he hangs up, deletes the conversation out of this call list.

The cigarette is almost done but his hands are still trembling. He will never get used to these businesses. Veneziano does not understand why he puts up with it, why he even supports them, but he has reasons his brother won't understand. The irony is, Romano himself can't comprehend them logically, but he does not waste any thoughts on it, not anymore.

He is a coward. That is not something one gladly reproaches them for.

The way out of the city is long, but taking the vespa would have been too dangerous. Instead he walks, underneath the olive trees, not wasting any thought on the mud, which will cover his expensive leather shoes. The rain increases.

The cigarette is finished when he reaches home. The lock's snap seems to be too loud. The unknown shoes in the corridor remain unnoticed, exhaustion wears him out too much and he is too cold. He peels himself out of his suit, lets the bloody jacket slide down to the floor. Carefully he pulls the white shirt off the scabby cut on his left upper arm.

"Cazzo."

It is the first quiet word, which he wastes this evening and would it be up to him, it would remain the last one, but as he pulls the gun out off his pocket and leaves it on the night table, now standing in his bedroom, he notices the opened balcony door. He notices the white curtains, which are being blown into the room eerily, carrying in the characteristic stale smell of a rainy city. He notices the coat on the bed, that does not belong to him and he notices the dark shadow, which is now entering the room from the balcony.

Romano stiffens, grabs the gun again, releases the safety catch. The quiet snap makes his pulse race, but in the next moment his heart stops beating entirely, because he hears a well-known voice and in front of the pale moonlight which pierces through the window glass, he can make out dark uncombed curls.

"Lovino?"

Slowly he drops the pistol, gently puts it down on the small table. Antonio walks up to him, but as he reaches out to switch on the light, Romano places his hand above the Spaniard's one and shakes his head. He needs the darkness, which wraps him up protectively, covers the blood spots in his face, the deep cut on his arm, the dark sticky liquid on his cross, which lies heavy around his neck, burning every sin into his skin.

He can make out Antonio's eyes, but not what is written within them. He just feels the Spaniard's warm breath as well as his warm hand that takes his one, stroking the knuckles carefully. He is being pressed down on the bed, then Antonio disappears to return with a wet cloth and a gauze bandage. The warm fabric feels good on his cold skin and even the burning is bearable. Antonio's moves are gentle, skilled, trained through all the years of being un conquistador.

Both waste no words, not while Antonio clears the wound, not when he wraps the gauze bandage carefully, but nevertheless tightly around Romano's upper arm, not when he notices the blood on the cross. Romano thanks him for it, silently of course. This is something he has to work out with himself, for which he does not need any scolding, any accusations or demanding questions. He knows that Antonio hates this side of him, that he believes murder does not belong to Romano's character and Romano knows that, too. Knows, it does not suit his cowardly life, can't be arranged with the fact, that he does hide himself in Antonio's arms when a thunderstorm is raging outside, or his constant swearing while driving a car. But at the same time he also knows, that it defines him, differs him from Veneziano and maybe that is why he accepts it.

Antonio kisses his bare shoulder, lingers there for a moment, then moves to his neck. Romano lets him do, neither shows affection nor refusal. He just remains seated, stares at the waving curtains. Antonio presses him down on the mattress and runs his hand through the Italian's damp hair.

The sex is fast, shallow, distanced. A trace of angst and mistrust lingers within and Romano does not feel right, when he places his head on Antonio's chest. The quietly whispered loving words between them are not shared, Antonio does not pull him towards him like everytime, putting his arms possessively around him. Instead he plays absently with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Romano's hands are still trembling and he searches for the cigarettes in his trousers that are lying on the ground, lightens one. It still tastes insipid, damp, metallic. But for the moment it is enough.

For the moment, until morning, until breakfast, when both will drink their coffee and pretend nothing has happened, when the bandage will be covered by a clean shirt, which smells of washing powder and when the cross will shimmer like silver – as always. When again, Rome will smell after dusty architecture, screaming kids playing in the alleys and tourist bags being rummaged through by pocket thieves.

Until next time.

- fin


End file.
